


Clara's Mug

by theshippingprince



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshippingprince/pseuds/theshippingprince
Summary: He found the mug on accident.It was a dusty, old thing, unwashed, with a ring around it’s pearly interior from where the last round of tea had sat for just a little bit too long. The pale ceramic had loose lines painted on it, that must’ve been brighter a handful of washes earlier but, had faded now considerably. There was a smudge of lipstick on the edge, but it had been sitting for so long that the exact shade of red was indescribable.The Doctor finds a forgotten mug belonging to a young woman that he cannot remember.





	Clara's Mug

**Author's Note:**

> I sent the rough copy of this story to my friend Angie (bleuboxes) with the email title: "I wrote a thing today instead of doing my College Apps, care to take a look?" and she liked it so, here we are.

He found the mug on accident. 

It was a dusty, old thing, unwashed, with a ring around it’s pearly interior from where the last round of tea had sat for just a little bit too long. The pale ceramic had loose lines painted on it, that must’ve been brighter a handful of washes earlier but, had faded now considerably. There was a smudge of lipstick on the edge, but it had been sitting for so long that the exact shade of red was indescribable.

It was a lonely little mug. It felt lonely in the palm of his hand. Once loved, now abandoned, and tucked away beneath boxes of mementos his TARDIS had collected over the years. Left by somebody who was never to return, or so he theorized because he could not remember. Everything had a story, after all, who was to say that this mug, tucked delicately, with a chip on the mouth of it near the handle, should be denied a story?

He stood between the bookshelves of miscellaneous materials that he hadn’t the time to organize, despite being a lord of it. (Get it? Time Lord?) His wrinkled mind fishing out ideas of who could’ve possibly had left a mug so desperately loved. 

He imagined a young woman, with lanky, spidery legs, pointing at it in a shop.  _ Perfect paint job _ , she would say,  _ perfect for a midnight cup of tea _ . Her cheeks would flush as brightly as her hair, and she would beg the large nosed young man accompanying her until he, reluctantly (and rolling his eyes), fished the cash out of his pocket for it. 

She’d place a sticky red kiss to the young man’s cheek, and he would blush, stuttering over his words, as though his heart was beating so quickly it was making his voicebox quake. 

She’d carry the mug with her wherever she went, saying it brought her good luck, brought her the love of her life (although he had been there since the beginning) until one day it was lost, forgotten on the shelf of some dreadfully old, young looking man’s back room, leaving only a whiff of memories in its wake.

But, this wasn’t hers. 

No, his fiery best friend had left more than her fair share of mementos in her absence. (Those round spectacles being the most prominent of unfortunate gifts, the hole in his heart being even more so.)

So, his mind imagined another woman, one with an actual degree in what he called himself, and intelligence to rival his own, observing his love of tea (and his lack in mugs to carry said tea in). He could see her bright eyes carefully catching the ceramic on her way home from work.  Purchasing the ceramic as a gift for a traveling man (although she would never truly admit it was him), after reviewing all her mug options for just a little bit too long. 

He could see her heavy heart sinking in her chest as he disregarded the item entirely, his mind too focused on forgetting a pretty blonde woman that he could never truly get back.

But, it wouldn’t have belonged to her either. She wasn’t forgetful enough to leave the thing with him. She would’ve scavenged, and found it, tucking it into her bag as she left, never to return. Never to accept his apology for the way he had treated her.

After all, she had moved on, why hadn’t he?

She had a life, a medical degree, a whole future, and he had taken most of that from her.  _ Trauma had eaten her up, eaten her alive _ , the immortal man had said. The year that never was, that never would be, tattooed onto her subconscious, letting her soul crumble until she was nothing, and there was nothing he nor the immortal man could do to save her.

She had been one of the few to live but, was it enough?

He could never truly save them, turn them back to the way they were before he met them. Never.

He blinked, clearing the woman’s image from his mind. He instead, imagined another young woman. One with rapidfire sass, glowing hot-iron curls (that he would never admit he was jealous of) and a heart of gold. Perhaps she hadn’t bought the mug but, stolen it instead. Slipping it into her purse, and whistling as she removed herself from the store.

Perhaps it had been a gift for her crabby mother. A nearly forgotten mother’s day present as an apology. The cake she had tried to bake had gone haywire, and she had missed her flight home after traveling the world. Perhaps the mug would be enough to say I’m sorry without having to actually say it. Without actually having to admit that she was wrong.

She’d sway her hips into the living room or the kitchen, mug wrapped poorly in hand, and force her mother to sit down next to her. To listen. And there would be a moment of peace, of calm.

And then she would accidentally let it slip that she had stolen the mug and everything would go up in flames again. The constant, bickering, never-ending argument that she shared since what seemed to be the dawn of time, would continue and the mug would eventually find its way onto his ship.

He would ask her about it, he probably did if this version events was even close to the real one, and she would snark something back, making him gasp or laugh or bite his tongue for making such a comment.

And people asked if they had been married! What a joke! He could’ve never married her, she would only ever make fun of him, or at least that version of him. (The regeneration version of a midlife crisis.)

But still, imagining her did not change her fate, did not change what had happened to her, like what had happened to the medical professional, or his best friend.

The guilt sat in his chest like a mixed case of hypothermia and pneumonia, sure to leave him eventually but, to have an everlasting cough and gasping of breath, that would stay and stay and stay until the day he passed on.

But, that was not the point. Sure, the guilt was present but, that didn’t change the fact that whoever the mug belonged to? He sincerely could not remember.

Perhaps he really was getting too old, too lost protecting his favourite planet, that he had begun to forget those who lived on it. Perhaps everybody was right. He was just getting a little too old for this. 

He ran a finger over the washed out ceramic, before he placed it back down where it had been before. Tucked between his miscellaneous notes, and textbooks, and fiction that did not seem to fit anywhere else but there. And a dusty book with an uncracked spine, labeled  _ One Hundred Places to See _ in red, looping text. 

Whoever had owned the mug before him had clearly loved it. He could tell by how many times it had been washed, and rinsed, and presumably carefully placed back up on a high shelf. But, whoever that person was, they were gone. They weren’t coming back for the mug. If he had to be sure of anything, it was that. 

They were gone.

He grabbed the papers he was looking for, and stared at the mug for a moment longer. Wondering, curiosity pumping through his veins. But, it didn’t change the fact that whoever the mug had belonged to, hadn’t left an impression on his memory. Hadn’t left a trace that they were ever there.

He noted that it was a horrible feeling, one that was just a little too human for his tastes. One that he knew he had to remember if he wanted to keep doing his job, protecting his favourite planet in all of the universe. If he forgot, well there wasn’t anything good that could ever come from that.

With heavy feet, he made his way to the doorway of the room filled with papers and books and information that would never be organized, and stood, his forefinger poised against the lightswitch, looking back at the mess of it all. Thinking about the mug, lodged, forgotten, with that colorless smudge of lipstick, missing its owner that it would never truly get.

_ I’m sorry _ , thought the old man, his hearts heavy in his chest.  _ I’m so, so sorry _ .  
  
He left the mug on the shelf, flipped off the lightswitch, and closed the door, but it seemed to stay with him, sitting in his chest beside the guilt, and just repeating over and over and over:  _ run and remember, run and remember, run and remember _ .


End file.
